Interfering Sport
by Lkay09
Summary: -you sneak a peek at him and find that he is staring at you- Katie/Oliver two-shot. R&R, yes?
1. Start

**Part one of a two-shot. Second part will be posted tomorrow :)**

**Don't own Harry Potter, blah-dee-blah-dee-blah. Longer A/N at the bottom, _please read _:)**

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><p>It's kind of funny really – funny and sad – how much you like him. And how badly you want him to notice you. Why else would you join the Quidditch team?<p>

Yes, you're a tomboy and you love Quidditch as much as the next person, but you have never been that good at it.

But Angelina saw how you watched him with wide eyes and told you bluntly the only thing he cared about was Quidditch. Seeing your crestfallen look, she had softened and offered to train you in time for tryouts next year.

You put more effort into it than anything else, determined to get the fourth year Scot to notice you.

It worked – well, sort of. He was Captain when you tried out and when you made all five goals, he looked at you with hopeful, shining eyes. He offered you the spot instantly, and you accepted without hesitating.

But this is Oliver Wood and sometimes you can't help but think that he wouldn't notice you if you were dancing naked in front of him with green hair.

Angelina and Alicia consoled you, saying you would get over him, setting you up on dates, eating ice cream with you, doing anything and everything to help you move on.

None of it worked though – of course it didn't, how could it when you had your heart set on him from the moment you saw him?

Even in his last year his whole focus was on Quidditch – he wouldn't be Oliver if it wasn't.

You gave up on him noticing you finally. Were you over him? You told your friends yes, but they all knew better. Everyone knew better – the entire house and half the school knew that you liked Oliver, and they all pitied you simply because nobody could compete with his legendary love of Quidditch.

Practices were as manic as ever. You flew in all types of weather: hot, windy, dry, rainy, snow, sleet.

Oliver was almost never satisfied either. From his post at the goal hoops, he was constantly yelling, the stress of winning causing him to overreact to everything. The team was feeling mutinous, George and Fred muttering about possible ways to get him to shut up.

Torn between wanting to protect Oliver from the twins and frustration at him, you get the wildest idea.

Oliver certainly stopped yelling when a sweaty shirt hit him in the face. Looking up, he could see you, angry, hovering in front of him, arms crossed over a sports bra-clad chest. You ask him flatly if he is going to keep yelling, and when he shakes his head, you fly off to rejoin Angelina and Alicia at practicing passes

Gred or Forge – one of them – yells at him to stop staring.

You sneak a peek at him and find that he _is_ staring. You could slap him – he doesn't notice you're a girl until you're flying around half-naked in front of him. Never mind that Angelina and Alicia have _always_ practiced like that, it isn't until you start that he claims that it's distracting the guys on the team – Gred and Forge snicker – and that the girls must wear shirts at all times. You girls groan good-naturedly, but agree to.

It doesn't escape anyone's notice that even _with_ your shirt on, Oliver still stares at you more than he used to. You use this to your advantage, getting the only revenge you have it in you to get – wearing make-up, and wearing your skirts a little shorter like the other girls do. You tease him and flirt with him insistently and incessantly, "accidentally" bumping in to him until he drags you to the pitch one day and asks you what the hell you're doing.

You sigh and tell him _nothing_. Oliver being Oliver, he knows better and doesn't believe you. You just stare at him blankly, not ready to admit anything to him.

He mutters _damnit_ under his breath before yanking you to him and snogging you like there's no tomorrow. You break apart for a brief moment, you in shock and he trying to assess whether or not you're going to curse him into jelly.

Then your lips are glued together again and you can barely breathe and it's _amazing_, better than anything else in the world, all you've dreamed about for _years_.

But all too soon oxygen interrupts and so instead you talk. You just plant yourselves in the middle of the pitch and talk about anything and everything. You fess up to your crush and he fesses up to his.

It isn't till two in the morning that real life comes crashing back down abruptly in the form of four little words from Oliver.

"We need to talk," he says. You try to joke it off – you've been _talking_ for hours, you remind him – but he stays serious and you can feel your bubble deflating and vanishing with a _pop_ audible only to you.

He goes on to say that he likes you a lot – as much as Quidditch, which makes you blush because it's the sweetest compliment you've ever gotten – but that this isn't fair to you. He's leaving soon and he tells you – you're the first to know, he says excitedly – that Puddlemere is interested in him. And so even though he wants nothing more than to ask you to be him girlfriend, it isn't fair to expect you to deal with a boyfriend you would never see for three years.

So instead you agree to keep in touch and see what happens in three years when you graduate if both of you are still unattached. You know _you_ will be – your heart has always been set on him for years and that isn't going to change – and you can only hope that his desperate love for the sport will be enough to keep him single as well.

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><p><strong>I'm sure I have some explaining to do. You see, I have this giant purple spiral, full of nothing but my fanfictions. Story outlines, character outlines, chapters, notes, doodles, <em>everything<em>. And it's been full to bursting lately, so I picked tonight to be the night that I go through and type up everything - _everything_ - that is in there. Unfinished one-shots and two-shots are getting typed, finished, and posted. And for those of you saying I DON'T CARE, I WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE HELL HAPPENS WITH ROSE AND SCORPIUS IN _TWYT_, well then you can relax slightly. Chapter 14 is mostly written, and just needs to be typed, finished, polished, and posted. And that is my main focus for tonight, since that is the next thing in my overflowing spiral.  
>Anyways, just wanted to let y'all know :)<strong>

**Review, yes? Much love (: **


	2. Finish

**Para su disfrute...parte dos de _Interfering Sport_  
>Sorry, I try to practice Spanish every now and then lol I'm considering a minor in it for my second degree.<br>Anyway. Part 2 - Final part, as promised :) Thank you Unknown289, Essence of Lily, Loslote (who reviews like all my stories :D ), and EbonyK for your reviews on the first part :) Hope you like!**

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><p>You haven't seen him in three years. Three whole years. Sure, there have been letters, but everyone knows the real thing is so much better.<p>

Your schedules just never matched up. His downtime was when school and exams and Quidditch were picking up, and then when you were finally free, Puddlemere was back to practicing five days a week and studying formations and strategy the other day and then a game on the last day. And you tried to save as much money as possible while in school, but it was never enough to get a ticket to a Puddlemere game.

So you have to wait until you graduate and get a job and two paychecks later you are sitting at the next Puddlemere United game. You haven't quite figured out how you're going to actually _see_ Oliver after the game – you can only imagine the security the players have – but you are certainly going to try your damndest.

You watch him soar out onto the pitch with his teammates and he looks so _amazing_. You glance down at yourself – you are a little more dressed up than someone should be for a Quidditch game, and you have on make-up and _heels_, for Merlin's sake. You look like a _girl_. Angelina and Alicia would be so proud.

You have to swallow the fear that threatens to overwhelm you – the fear that he's moved on or that he will look at you and see you completely different and realize his feelings are gone or changed or not what they were three years ago. Yours haven't changed – if anything, they've intensified which, let's face it, is just plain crazy considering you haven't seen him in three years and only exchanged maybe thirty letters that whole time. It sounds like a lot, but his were always brief and always left you in a terror of him writing out of pity instead of love.

The game is over – Puddlemere wins – before you can collect your thoughts and then you are moving mechanically down the stairs, following what seems to be a herd of annoyingly shrill, over-enthusiastic fangirls as they head (you hope) towards the locker rooms or anywhere near the Puddlemere players.

And they do – you breathe a sigh of relief – they lead you straight to where the team, in all its sweaty, stinky, muddy glory is signing autographs and posing for pictures as fast as they possibly can. You see Oliver – your heart skips a beat, he's even _taller_ and has some stubble on his chin that just looks rough and _wonderful_ – signing and laughing away. He turns to scan the crowd one more time as the team is shepherded towards the locker rooms by coaches and he sees you. Your heart skips another beat – you think you might faint – and he smiles and your heart just stops. You pause for a moment to wonder if getting involved with this man is going to cause you chronic heart problems and then he mouths _wait here_ and you decide you don't care.

The other girls gradually filter away, and you park yourself leaning against the opposite wall. Security wizards keep a close eye on you like you might suddenly go berserk and try to bust into the locker room. The idea is appealing – the thought of curses if you do is not.

An hour passes, then an hour and a half, and finally you slump down to the ground, convinced that there is another way out of the locker room and Oliver told you to wait here so he could make an escape and avoid you altogether.

As time hits a second hour and keeps moving, you sigh and begin to pick yourself up off the ground wearily. So much for seeing Oliver. The security wizards tense but you just shrug at them and turn to walk away.

You've made it halfway down the hallway when he's running after you, hollering your name for all he's worth. You turn and he skids to a stop in front of you and you have to resist the temptation to just jump into his arms – amazing, muscular, tanned, perfect arms – since you can't help but think he doesn't want you there.

He apologizes furiously – _team meeting, setting practices, tradition of drowning myself in the shower_ – and asks if you want to go get something to eat. You agree quickly – and then tell yourself to not seem so bloody eager – and start to turn back around.

But then he spins you back to him and wraps him arms around your waist and snogs you like he did that night on the Quidditch Pitch at Hogwarts. And you're in heaven until he pulls away, blushing so hard he resembles the very Quaffle he kept out of the hoops all night. Then he's mumbling random things – _don't want to rush…still love you…sorry if I misread…wanted to see you so much over last three years…maybe I should just go_ – and stepping backwards from you slightly.

You have to close your jaw because _did Oliver Wood just use the L word in reference to something other than Quidditch?_

He's still stepping backwards, the bloody idiot, and you have to almost chase him down and this time you _do_ jump into his arms and snog the breath out of him and then murmur your own randomness back.

_Afraid I lost you…not rushing anything…wish I could have been here sooner…_

_I love you too._

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><p><strong>I'm actually fairly happy with how this second part turned out :) This was originally supposed to be just a longer one-shot, but I decided on impulse to chop it up and this was the result. Hope everyone enjoyed. If you did, you know how I want to know!<strong>

**Review! Much love (:**


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